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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535227">Operation Immortal Husbands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solovei/pseuds/Solovei'>Solovei</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2000s, Amsterdam, Banter, Breaking and Entering, Declarations Of Love, Discussions of religious homophobia, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, I did entirely too much research to bring you this, I hope y'all appreciate it, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Kissing, M/M, Oh also a bit of Christmas Fluff at the beginning, Pre-Canon, Rated Teen for drinking and maybe some swearing?, Shakespeare Quotes as flirting, Weddings, actual husbands, be gay do crime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:55:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solovei/pseuds/Solovei</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2001, The Netherlands became the first country in the world to fully legalize gay marriage. So of course, a trip to Amsterdam suddenly seems like a great idea.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache &amp; Booker | Sebastien le Livre &amp; Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>392</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Operation Immortal Husbands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I started writing something Crusades-era, but it lead me down such a huge research hole that I decided to do some cute, pointless wedding fluff. Unfortunately, that caused an even greater amount of research somehow, but at least this was like "why can't I find interior plans of this church that aren't in Dutch?" rather than "what was the role of the clergy during the First Crusade". Much easier.</p><p>Huge thanks to the following people:<br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonaargh">Lonaargh</a>, for explaining absolutely everything about how to get married in Amsterdam, and doing a bunch of other research!<br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amiril/">Amiril</a>, for getting me past a wall I had hit partway through,<br/>and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/VermilionRed/profile">VermilionRed</a> for doing the final beta!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2000 had been a bad year. After several gruelling months in the Middle East, Nicky convinced them to return to Gousainville for some much-needed rest. After all, it was nearly Christmas and he loved Christmas.</p><p>It didn’t matter that Joe did not technically celebrate Christmas (though he went along with it, for Nicky’s sake, and because there was literally no downside to pretty lights and good food and presents), or that Andy would just scoff and mention some obscure Bronze-age fertility festival that was actually meant to be during that time. The truth is, they all were looking for an excuse to take a break.</p><p>And so they found themselves at safehouse Charlie on December the 22nd, a cloudy, rainy day. Andy was splayed out in one of the armchairs, cradling an open bottle of red wine and aimlessly flipping channels.</p><p>Not looking up from the newspaper he’d been reading, Book frowns, clearly annoyed at the cacophony of noise from the quickly changing television screen. “You going to choose something to watch, boss?”</p><p>“It’s all shit. Take your pick.”</p><p>Andy tended to hate this time of the year. She doesn’t remember her birthday anymore, but one more year on the calendar is one more year she’d been alive, one more year to add to an already infinite collection of losses and sorrows. Usually her mood grew more and more sour as they approached January, and tended to lighten up around spring.</p><p>Joe makes a tsk-ing noise. “Come on Boss, where’s your Christmas spirit? Do we need to put on that film again? The one with the ghosts?” He is seated in the other armchair, Nicky curled up on his lap in a way that seemed to defy the limits of possibility (there wasn’t that much difference in their heights, but it was not a big chair). They are taking turns sipping from a single large mug of hot cocoa with an alarming amount of whipped cream and cinnamon on top. Occasionally, Joe would grab a whole dollop of cream in his mouth and Nicky would kiss him, as if trying to take it back.</p><p>“I thought that one was about capitalism?” Nicky chimes in.</p><p>“They’re all about capitalism in America,” Booker replies flatly before looking up and frowning at the scene in front of him. “Nicky, is there really nowhere else for you to sit in this entire house?”</p><p>“Is this about the cocoa? I did ask if you wanted one when I was making it, but you said no,” Nicky throws back.</p><p>It’s not about the cocoa, but Booker isn’t about to tell them that. Normally, he wasn’t bothered by Joe and Nicky’s closeness<strong>—</strong>jealous sure, but not bothered. At some point in his life he might have said it was wrong, but being impossibly alive after dying tends to change one’s perspective quite a bit. Whatever opinions he may have had about the morality of their relationship, Booker had gotten over them pretty soon after he met Nicky and Joe and Andy. But right now, he was jet lagged and exhausted, and Andy’s bad spirits were rubbing off on him.</p><p>He is about to say some very unkind words, when something catches his attention. There, in the World News section of the newspaper, is an article. Something about the Dutch Queen signing a… Booker’s eyes widened. This was perfect. The answer to all their problems. </p><p>“Hey, this is… Joe, Nicky, come look at this!”</p><p>“Sorry Booker, I’m too comfortable to move. Read it to us?” Joe replies. </p><p>Andy, it seems, has taken notice as well<strong>—</strong>she mutes the TV, takes a drink from her bottle of wine, and walks over to the table where Booker was sitting, peering over his shoulder at the newspaper. Her eyes scan the article briefly, and then she gives him that ‘are you thinking what I’m thinking’ look.</p><p>With a wry smile, Booker clears his throat and begins to read:</p><p>“Yesterday, on December 21, in Amsterdam, Queen Beatrix signed into law a bill allowing gay couples to get formally married. Registered partnerships were previously legal in the Netherlands, but this new law will grant all of the same rights and benefits to same-sex couples as well. The law goes into effect on April 1 of next year.”</p><p>For a few moments, nobody speaks. A plane roars overhead. This close to the holidays, they’re getting more frequent.</p><p>Nicky and Joe exchange blank looks. “So?” Joe asks.</p><p>Booker lets out a long sigh, grabs the bottle of wine from Andy, and takes his own long gulp before handing it back. She smirks.</p><p>“So, come April 1 next year, you two. Can go to Amsterdam and <em>get</em>. <em>Married</em>.”</p><p>“Oooohh,” Joe says slowly, words dripping with sarcasm, “you mean for real married, not like that one time Nicky had to pretend to be Andy’s husband so we could tail that prince?”</p><p>Spurned on, Nicky snorts, almost blowing whipped cream all over Joe’s beard. “Or the time Book and Joe got accidentally married in that cult ceremony!”</p><p>Andy sighs and sets the bottle down. “Listen. Joe... Nicky, you know I love you both, a lot. And I know, as old as we are, one piece of paper won’t change a damn thing about how you feel about each other. But. Now that you can. Why not?”</p><p>Booker lets out a sigh. It had started a joke, but… she was right. They deserved this. There are some hushed whispers between them, an undulating brook of Italian and Arabic and who knows what else.</p><p>Finally, Nicky turns to Andy. “When you say married, do you mean… in a church?”</p><p>----</p><p>And thus Operation Immortal Husbands gets under way. Booker busies himself with forging Dutch citizenship papers for Joe, as well as all the requisite declarations and identification for the marriage. Apparently, the market for fake Dutch passports isn’t exactly booming at the moment, so he does get shot, a little, trying to obtain one, but he figures it’s worth it for these guys and he didn’t have any other plans. Plus, he can always use this as leverage later to get Nicky to buy him some of that nice Italian booze only he seems to know where to get. </p><p>“Why can’t I be Dutch?” Nicky pouts as he looks at the passport later.</p><p>“I don’t know, Joe just looks more… from there” Booker says, shrugging.</p><p>This continues for the next several months, mostly in between other jobs, other trips. They rescue a kidnapped scientist in Mexico, help some refugees after a flood, and do a thorough inventory of their existing contacts in Europe and Asia. Throughout it all, the team seems to be in good spirits. Nicky and Joe are excited, Andy seems proud that her boys finally get to tie the knot, and Booker, with less time to sulk, is amiable and dependable.</p><p>And then, just when it seems like something will finally go off without a hitch for once, they hit a snag. Booker’s been doing research, calling up local contacts, trying to get a sense of how possible this whole thing is. And, it seems, just because the law has changed, doesn’t mean the Catholic church is planning on doing anything about it. The consensus appears to be: civil marriage ok, church marriage is a no go. Apparently the Pope himself has criticised the new law.</p><p>Booker almost winces when he has to break the news to Nicky. He decides to do it after breakfast one day while they’re at one of their other safehouses, in a tiny forgotten farmhouse outside of Dublin. Joe is washing the dishes he just cleared off the table, and Nicky has taken apart his sniper rifle to clean it. </p><p>Booker is a little thankful for that fact. Of course, there are a myriad of <em>other </em>ways Nicky could kill him, but this means there is at least one less. A sniper rifle hurts a lot more at point-black range, after all. He hovers in the doorway, unsure of how to start. </p><p>“Book, don’t stand there like a ghost,” Andy says without looking up from where she is sitting on the floor counting and sorting bullets. It’s very hard to sneak up on her, and he really needs to stop trying. </p><p>“So… Bit of a problem,” he begins, and all of the eyes turn to him. Joe turns off the water from the tap. “It seems like, the uhh… the Catholic church is not… going to acknowledge or do anything about this new law. I don’t think you’ll get your church wedding after all, Nicky.” </p><p>“Oh. Okay.” Nicky says, his voice as light and airy as the gingham curtains wafting in the breeze from the window. “Thanks for trying, Book.” </p><p>Booker wonders what it was he was so worried about. </p><p>Joe had read an article about some couples who planned to get married right at midnight on April 1st, but Andy vetoes that plan right out of the gate. Too public. Nobody sends a reporter to interview the 10th or 15th person to do something.</p><p>“Why the 7th?” Booker asks Joe one evening as they're on a stakeout, watching the comings and goings from a suspected human trafficker’s compound.</p><p>“It’s a good number. Important number in Islam, in Christianity… Also, Nicky and I met on the 7th,” Joe explains, glued to his binoculars</p><p>“...of July, but close enough.” Nicky adds over the radio.</p><p>“Do you actually remember that? Either of you?” Andy asks, her voice incredulous even through the static.</p><p>“... Okay, fine, I looked it up a few years back.” </p><p>----</p><p>Joe is sketching the scenery out the train’s window as they stop in Brussels to let passengers on and off. Nicky watches him draw while he finishes the last dregs of the coffee from the cabin attendant’s cart. It’s pretty rare for them to be traveling out amongst everyone like this, so he is savoring the experience. It’s not first class, but it sure beats stowing away in an empty cargo car. They had caught an early morning train; most of the other passengers are business people heading to meetings or conferences, briefcases in tow. He looks for a few moments at the empty paper cup, then carefully taps his boot against the sole of Joe’s shoe to get his attention.</p><p>“Nine hundred and two, Yusuf,” He says, his voice even.</p><p>“Oh. We missed our anniversary.” Joe sounds a bit sad.</p><p>Nicky lets out a quiet chuckle, lightly moving his leg to rest against Joe’s ankle. “I’m sure this makes up for it, somehow.”</p><p>Joe closes his leather-bound notebook and sets it down on the small fold-out table, and Nicky can see that his face is serious, earnest. “Habibi, I’ve never needed you to make up for anything.”</p><p>Nicky’s storm-sky eyes hold Joe’s gaze as he places a hand over top of the book, casually. He knows his words and his gestures would mean different things. Words could be your undoing; the wrong word can send a man to his death, start a war, or end an alliance. A gesture was situational, easily missed and passed off as something else. But he leaves his hand where it is.</p><p>“Not even…” he begins, keeping his voice at a volume only Joe could hear. “That time in Constantinople?” He adjusts his posture slightly, letting the toe of his boot graze the hem of Joe’s jeans.</p><p>It doesn’t take Joe long to clue in, and he takes a quick glance around before turning his head so that to most onlookers, he is simply a man admiring the scenery out the window. Then, he lets his own hand find its place on the table as well, millimeters from Nicky’s. “Not even that time,” he finally says.</p><p>“...the time in Havana?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“What about Stockholm?”</p><p>“...well. Maybe a little bit for that time.”</p><p>But, Nicky is not finished. “Leningrad?”</p><p>“That was Andy’s fault.”</p><p>“South Pacific?”</p><p>“My fault.”</p><p>“Poland?”</p><p>“I thought Poland went okay? Why, did you not think it went okay?”</p><p>That proves to be the final straw, and Nicky breaks into chuckles.</p><p>Joe moves to get up from his seat, and as he does so, brushes his hand over Nicky’s in a way that they both know is absolutely deliberate, but would look accidental to anyone paying attention. “I’m going to stretch my legs. Do you want anything?”</p><p>And just like that, they are back in the real world. Nicky smiles up at him and starts paging through a magazine he bought at the station. “Water, grazie.”</p><p>---</p><p>The Amsterdam Centraal station is nestled impossibly among dozens of small canals, its main building an impressive 19th century construction mimicking an even earlier Gothic style. Joe points out the overwhelming irony of the fact that this building, which is not that much younger than Booker, has not one but two Starbucks stores in it, along with some luxury boutiques selling everything from cosmetics to artisanal cheese. Nicky agrees with him, but buys them breakfast sandwiches at Starbucks anyway, no matter how sacrilegious it seems, because Joe always skips breakfast if he gets up too early.</p><p>They eat along the way, since they’ve got an appointment to keep. It’s a fairly short walk to City Hall, not even half an hour, but they’re dodging tourists so by the time they get there, Andy and Booker are already waiting for them.</p><p>“Boss, you actually put on a nice shirt for once!” Nicky says, clearly teasing. Andromache the Scythian is wearing a white button-up shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. It clashes with her black cargo pants, but in a cool way. He pulls her into a hug, probably wrinkling said shirt in the process.</p><p>Andy waves her hand dismissively. "You'd do the same for me."</p><p>“You didn’t want to take the train with us?” Joe asks them after he has had his own requisite Hug From Andy.</p><p>“Had some business to take care of,” Booker says simply, standing off to the side and looking like he’s either nursing a hangover or plotting to stage a coup. He unshoulders his bag and pulls out a brown paper envelope, handing it to Joe.</p><p>"Alright, boys. Ready to get hitched?" Andy asks, and the four of them exchange familiar looks. </p><p>Nothing more needs to be said as they stride into the building. </p><p>This part of it is not all that exciting. The clerk collects their paperwork, checks the documents, congratulates them. Joe answers questions and makes small talk in slightly accented Dutch. Nicky stands beside him hand loosely linked around his waist, nodding at appropriate times. </p><p>"How long have you two been together?" The clerk asks, smiling. </p><p>"Oh, it feels like centuries sometimes," Joe quips, giving Nicky a sidelong glance. </p><p>"It sure does!” She shuffles a few papers around behind the counter. “I see you filed the proper announcement, so everything should be ready for your appointment”</p><p>Nicky turns back to wink at Booker, who gives him a lazy salute. He is still wearing sunglasses. </p><p>“Any guests or photographers here with you today?” </p><p>“No. Just family,” Nicky says. “They’re our witnesses.” </p><p>The clerk leans over a little to look at where Andy and Booker are seated on some waiting room chairs. They give an awkward wave. A city official, a middle-aged woman in a smart blazer, comes out from behind the desk and also offers congratulations before escorting all four of them into a nearby meeting room. It’s a little more nice-looking than your average boardroom, with four tables arranged in a square. Andy and Book instinctively take up positions on either side of the door (old habits die hard), before realizing this is not that sort of mission. Joe and Nicky sit down at one table, Andy at another, and Book at the third, while the official takes the seat table opposite the soon-to-be-married couple. </p><p>There’s a few lines of preamble, a terrible joke, Joe says yes, and Nicky says yes, and within ten minutes out of the innumerable ones they’ve lived and fought and died together, they are pronounced married. They kiss, everyone signs some papers and they are given a small blue booklet, of a similar size and design as a passport, bearing the Amsterdam coat of arms on the cover. </p><p>An hour later, they're having lunch and Joe can't help but keep pulling out the marriage certificate to look at it. The names on it are their names, slightly filtered through the haze of assumed identities but still <em>theirs.</em> On an official document, one that is legal and approved. He remembers the first time they declared their love in any sort of public capacity, carving their initials into a tree in Jerusalem once they both decided it was safe to return.  

Andy, swallowing the piece of steak she'd been chewing, glances at him with curiosity. "Joe? Still with us?"</p><p>He looks up, and notices that Booker and Nicky are wearing similar expressions. </p><p>"Yeah, Boss. It's just… so strange. All it takes is a couple of signatures and a stamp and… there you are. Your fates are intertwined forever."</p><p>Andy puts a hand on his shoulder. "Your fates were already intertwined. This is just… another expression of what you've had for millennia."</p><p>Nicky reaches across the table to firmly grasp Joe's arm. "E sempre sarà," he adds. </p><p>Booker, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, gives Nicky a few brotherly pats on the back. “It’s just papers, Joe. I make those in my sleep.” </p><p>They part ways after another round of drinks; Andy wants to check out some museum, Booker is off to hunt for first editions, while Nicky and Joe set off to wander the city, walking the narrow streets, the ancient canals. They hit up a couple of street markets, meander in and out of shops, try to remember what used to be in this or that spot. Soon, it is dark, and Joe is telling him a story about the time Andy went searching for Amelia Earhart, a tale Nicky had already heard several times in the last few decades, but enjoys listening to anyway. Still, as they make their way to no particular destination, he finds himself feeling strangely… empty. He should be happy, he just married the love of his life, officially, for real. And yet, something in him longs for the thing that could have been. The sacred vows, the stained glass, the smell of incense. </p><p>“... Nicolo?” Joe’s voice reaches him as if from far away. </p><p>“Oh. I’m sorry, I was… lost in thought.” </p><p>“Are you disappointed?” Joe asks him in Italian.</p><p>“Not exactly. I expected something like this from the church. I was hoping I would be proven wrong, though,” Nicky replies in the same tongue. </p><p>Joe looks around, scanning the area around them. They were in the trendy Jordaan neighborhood, surrounded by pubs and restaurants, stalls selling street food. The faint smell of batter and caramel lingered in the air. And there, like a sign, towered a large gothic spire, as if piercing the sky. This is Westerkerk, built in the 1600s and the final resting place of Rembrandt himself. Joe vaguely remembers something about it maybe being a Protestant church now, but in his heart of hearts he knows Nicky wouldn’t care about that. By the time Martin Luther had nailed his list of grievances to that door, they’ve already been in love for a few centuries. </p><p>“Nicky,” Joe declares, switching to English. “You want to have a church wedding? Let’s have a church wedding.”</p><p>“You heard what Booker said--”</p><p>“Who cares? Why do we need some crusty old guy to tell us we love each other? We can marry ourselves. You say some nice words, I say some nice words, we kiss. Then we go to the hotel and, you know…. Consummate.” </p><p>Nicky gives him a sly smile, capturing his lips in a kiss under the cover of night. “Call up the others. We’re going to need backup.”</p><p>---</p><p>At 11pm, the four of them assemble in a narrow street a few blocks from the church, radios at the ready. The tourists haunting this area during daylight hours are gone, the booths selling overly-expensive canal boat tickets shuttered and silent. </p><p>Booker gives them a preliminary report. “There was a silent alarm, but I uh - managed to cut the power to it. Hopefully.” He smells a little singed. </p><p>Joe doesn’t look convinced, though. “Hopefully?”</p><p>“Well, if I had more time to scope the place out, I could’ve given you more to work with. You should have at least an hour, if I did it right.”</p><p>Nicky nods, in full-on mission mode.</p><p>Andy pulls a small handgun out of her waistband, checking the safety. “Right. Stay in radio contact. I’ll maintain a perimeter patrol; Book, you keep an eye on that security system. If any cops show up, try to divert them or send them to me.”</p><p>Joe frowns under his beard, “Boss, did you really need to bring that? It’s not really that kind of job…”</p><p>She looks from one of them to the other, and finally to Book, who is suppressing laughter. “... Fine. Not like I need this to kill someone, should it come to that.” Andy says, clearly annoyed as she unloads the clip and shoves it into one of the pockets of her cargo pants.</p><p>“You’d kill someone on our wedding day? That’s a bad omen....” Nicky mutters. </p><p>They exit out to the wider street, knowing full well that Andy and Book will wait about a minute to give them a head start, so as not to arouse suspicion. Making their way along the side of the building, they walk at a casual pace; in the dark, they could be mistaken for tourists out for a late-night stroll, or perhaps returning to their hotel after dinner. </p><p>Not 100 meters from the intersection, a very out-of-place metal shutter breaks up the red brick around it. Joe motions his head in its direction, and Nicky takes a quick look around to make sure the coast is clear. The shutter itself is broken up into individual sections that fold up like a closet door, and will likely make a whole world of noise if he tries to climb it, so Nicky climbs up the single-story brick structure directly adjacent to it. He thinks this might have been the rectory at some point. </p><p>Nicky keeps watch from the roof, shrouded in shadow, as Joe fiddles with the lockpicks to jimmy the simple padlock keeping the shutter in place. Once it gives way, he slides it open quietly and slips in, closing it behind him. From the roof of the small building, Nicky offers him a hand to help pull him up. Once he’s about halfway up though, Joe stops climbing and smiles up at him, balancing himself against the wall on his elbows. “With love’s light wings did I o'erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out--” he begins, voice husky.</p><p>“Oh my god, Joe, stop…Not the...” Nicky laughs quietly through his blush. “Not the time. Is that one of Will’s?”</p><p>“Naturally. It seemed to fit the mood.” Joe explains as he gets the rest of the way up and steals a kiss, which Nicky happily returns. Even before they’re entirely done, he clicks the radio to life. “Breached the perimeter. Beginning entry.” </p><p>“Copy that. South side is clear,” Andy’s voice replies.</p><p>Back on the roof, crouched low in the shadows, they consider their options. The large gothic windows of the church are an attractive (and suitably dramatic) option, but Nicky shakes his head, saying they’re unlikely to have been designed to open. A broken window in a national monument will <em>definitely</em> attract attention.  </p><p>“We could climb the tower, you know…” Joe suggests with a chuckle.</p><p>Nicky rolled his eyes, “Per favore, no. I’m too full of stroopwafel to do something like that.” He takes another look around. The white door they passed earlier was probably the churchyard gate, a very long time ago. “There, that’s our way in,” he says definitively, nodding towards a small window set into the roof of an adjacent building, about the same level as the one they were on, but slightly more ornate. It looked like just enough of an architectural afterthought to be easily overlooked when closing down for the night. </p><p>Joe lets him go on ahead, and Nicky feels around the windowpane for a latch. With some quiet application of strength, the right half of the windowpane finally gives way, opening out to the roof. He ushers Joe inside first, making sure he got through safely, before activating the radio. “We’re going in. Time?”</p><p>“11:10. Alarm still looks to be out.” Booker’s voice replies. </p><p>“We’ll keep you safe from out here,” Andy adds. </p><p>On the other side of the window is a small, darkened office, fairly boring as far as offices go. A desk, a table lamp, some shelves. Neatly arranged binders labelled with things like ‘Begroting 1997’ and ‘Facturen’.</p><p>As quietly as shadows they make their way down a small winding staircase, Nicky leading the way, always watchful, focused. Even if the church was empty, it was hard to shake the instinct after so many centuries. He moves as though he is prepared at any moment to strike (and he is), but before long they pass another couple of doors and find themselves, quite suddenly, in the nave. </p><p>It is a room bathed in moonlight, a stark contrast to the dark, musty rooftop and shadowy rooms they were just in. After his eyes adjust, Nicky takes a moment to revel in the architectural wonder of the place, the huge vaulted ceilings, the stark white walls broken up by gold and brown wooden fixtures. He tilts his head up until the lines of the arching domes become almost two-dimensional, and he feels strangely at peace. </p><p>He feels Joe interlace their fingers, tugging him along until they both stand in a pool of moonlight being cast onto the floor. </p><p>“Yusuf?” </p><p>“Come, Nicolo.”</p><p>They face each other, because it seems right, and because they don’t know what else to do. </p><p>Nicky looks at their intertwined hands, then at the man he is now officially, at least in the eyes of local law, married to. Joe has a smudge of dirt on his forehead from climbing up that wall, and a bit of dried blood from where he scraped his arm on the edge of the window but he is otherwise <em>perfect</em>.</p><p>He starts off slowly, halting. “I feel like I should be… Saying something. But you’re the one who is good with words, Yusuf. And, after…” Nicky’s voice breaks a little, ”all this time, it is so tempting to say that there is nothing left to say.”</p><p>Nicky falters here, taking a breath, “but I know that there are so many more things I want to say to you, to do with you, to see with you, that haven’t been said or done or seen yet. I want… I want to meet the future with you, Yusuf, il mio amore.”</p><p>Once he is finished talking, he realizes he’s taken a small step forward, as if pulled by a gravitational force. Not only that but Joe has mirrored his movement, and he leans his forehead against Nicky’s, drawing his strong hands up to rest on the sides of his head, thumbs caressing his cheeks lightly. </p><p> “Nicolo…. Nicolo. My moon. My light,” Joe murmurs, his voice soft, impossibly intimate in such a cavernous space. Nicky smiles because he can’t help it. “I know you will keep me safe, as you have for so many days I have lost count. We’ve died for each other, over and over again, but after all this time. I want to <em>live</em> for you, Nicolo… as I hope you will live for me.” </p><p>“I will, or… I do, or…” Nicky has lost all grasp of language, every single tongue he knows jumbling together. Lacking words he just tilts his head forward, parting Joe’s lips with his own, and this kiss feels like their first, their fiftieth, their last<strong>—</strong>from adrenaline-fuelled bloody-mouthed kisses to lazy pre-coffee morning kisses, and everything in between. He feels Joe shiver, pressing their bodies close before breaking apart although their faces remain close.</p><p>The radio in Nicky’s pocket makes a clicking noise before hissing, and he lets out a quiet swear in a long-forgotten language, fumbling to answer just as Andy’s voice crackles through requesting their status. “F-fine. Molto bene. Time?” Nicky asks, trying to make himself sound as normal as he can muster. </p><p>More static. Amazingly, the reception in a 400-year-old church is not very good. </p><p>“Book says you have 15 minutes.”</p><p>“Copy that. Over and out,” Nicky says, a bit of an edge in his voice at having their moment interrupted. He turns off the radio entirely, quick to get back into what they were doing as Joe nuzzles at his neck.</p><p>“So… you’re the expert here. How does this work? Did we do it right?” </p><p>Nicky smiles. “Hmmm. How did it go.... Do you, Yusuf al-Kaysani, take Nicolo di Genova as your husband, until... death shall you part?”</p><p>“That won’t work for us, Nicolo, you’ll have to change it up. How about... Time?” </p><p>“Si.”</p><p>Joe pretends to think it over, jokingly stroking his beard. “In that case, yes. Absolutely yes. Now and for as long as we have.”</p><p>Grinning, Nicky moves to kiss him again, but Joe pulls away. “Ah ah<strong>—</strong>I’ve seen enough weddings to know you can’t kiss until everyone says the magic words,” he explains, as if they hadn’t kissed innumerable times since that first time. Joe clears his throat in mock formality. “Do you, Nicolo di Genova, take Yusuf al-Kaysani as your husband, and promise to continue to be everything you have been for the last… 902 years?”</p><p>“Hell yes,” Nicky all but shouts, forgetting for a second that they were not only in a church, but also on a covert mission. </p><p>“You may now kiss the--” Joe starts to say, but Nicky is on him before he can finish, fingers in his hair, all lips and tongue and teeth, hungry as though they haven’t been doing this for nearly a thousand years. What was fifteen minutes to people who’ve been in love for nine centuries? Joe bites at his lower lip, Nicky moaning into his mouth. </p><p>Somewhere in the back of his head, Nicky is aware that they had to make the exit. That possibly, Andy and Book were facing 30-odd cops down there, all by themselves, which seemed unfair. But all of that feels very far away right now.</p><p>They would’ve stayed there for hours, kissing in the moonlit church, if a voice didn’t startle them.</p><p>Not Andy’s voice. Not Booker’s voice. A voice they don’t know, calling out in Dutch. He freezes. Booker had done the perimeter check when he dealt with the alarm, there had been no lights on in the building. It should’ve been deserted.</p><p>“Hello? Is someone in here? We’re closed, please come back tomorrow”. A man was saying, loud yet cautious, as if he is hoping he wouldn’t get a reply.</p><p>Before Nicky can stop him, Joe steps forward, “Hello! You have a very nice church here,” he replies in Dutch, smiling in the most non-threatening way possible. </p><p>The man takes a few steps as well, as if trying to get a better look at them. He’s middle-aged with graying hair and a pot belly, wearing a black shirt with a white priest’s collar. The priest is carrying a small flashlight, and they squint a bit in the moving circle of light. “Are you robbers? Vandals? In any case, you should not be here! I will call the police!”</p><p>Joe holds up his hands placatingly, and Nicky, observant and patient, already takes in every detail<strong>—</strong>how tall the priest is, where he is standing, the distance to the way they came. Plans and contingencies begin to form in his head. They were standing with their backs to the church tower, and they could always make their escape that way. It was only… about 90 meters, he guessed. Might hurt tomorrow, but they would make it. They always made it, after all. </p><p>“We mean you no harm, Father. My name is Yusuf, and this...“ Joe pulls Nicky to stand beside him, and Nicky tries to force a friendly, neutral expression over his face and not one that says <em>‘I am trying to figure out how to minimize harm to my immortal lover’</em> “... this is Nicolo, the man I have loved for a… very long time. We were passing by, and we were… struck by the magnificence of this church here. It is a marvel. We wanted to declare our love here, in a holy place like this.” </p><p>The priest looks more uncomfortable now than when he thought they were trying to rob him. “You should not have come here. I know there’s a law now, but the Diocese…. Does not approve of these kinds of activities.”</p><p>It’s possible he means breaking and entering into historically significant buildings, but they’re both pretty sure he’s talking about the other thing. </p><p>Nicky rolls his eyes and swears, loudly and descriptively, in Latin; it wasn’t a language he’s had occasion to use much for the last 500 years, so he is probably rusty on pronunciation, but the occasion seems fitting. “Your kind… you create such divides between people, and for what? What do you gain from this? You taught me to hate Yusuf’s people, and the things… the things we did, they still force me awake in the dead of night, so many lifetimes later. If I had listened to you, I would have never met the love of my life. I never would have experienced his warmth, his generosity, never been able to protect him from the ills of this world. And you would take that way?” Finally, he sighs and shakes his head, as if talking had tired him out. Big emotional speeches were usually Joe’s forte. Nicky preferred to hang back and observe. </p><p>The priest sighed also and turned off his flashlight, as if confident that he wasn’t in danger. “This is a house of god and should be open to all. But… I will admit, the church has created divide. I… I have a niece, you know. Elsje. She’s… your age, maybe a bit younger. I love her dearly, always have. And she has a… a female companion, a woman she is very close with. They intend to get married, now that it’s legal, after they finish their studies. So you see, I am conflicted. My faith teaches me that their love is wrong, but I can see that my Elsje is happy.”</p><p>Joe and Nicky share a look. Nicky sighs and lets go of Joe’s hand, walking toward the priest. “I used to be like you. Too much, actually”, he says with a quiet chuckle. He remembers the strength of his conviction when he glimpsed the walls of Jerusalem, the passion with which he rode into battle, so sure he was doing the right thing, the proper thing, the holy thing. “There was a time when I too had to question the teachings of my faith. And, well. You can see the road I chose. Now the choice is yours. But I do know that it costs us nothing to be kind.”</p><p>Silence descends.</p><p>The priest unlocks the door for them to leave, Joe thanks him and wishes him well in Arabic, and they walk, hand in hand, back out into the humid Amsterdam air. </p>
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